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In the summer of 2009, I looked around my Pottery Barn house and decided to burn it down.
I was newly single for the first time since I'd discovered boys.
I had more money than I could spend. I was moving to a new place. It was a good time to be Samantha.

Rock Dude's headshot was my desktop background.
This time, I was going to talk to him, no matter what.
I spent days pacing in front of my monitor, rehearsing my speech.
"Hi, I'm Samantha. I'm really awesome and a little eccentric. I teach people to fuck and...
"Hi, I'm Sam. Is that a guy's name? Sometimes I do 'guy things.' I like video games - I was a moderator on Gamewinners, action movies - oh! I broke into prison last year and...Damn it.
"Hi. We met in high school. You may remember me. You were playing local gigs. I was Frank N. Furter. And Yvette. And Mitzi Del Bra. And we did burlesque. I can't go into CVS anywhere in the county without being recognized. And yet I have a crush on you. WANT ME.
"You know those people who streak at sports events to get noticed? I danced in my underpants in front of thousands of people. You're like the only dude in the state that didn't come to my shows, and I did them hoping you would notice me. That sounds great, Samantha. Is 'obsession' the new black?
"Hi. I'm Samantha. I'm into extreme sports and I use my skills to contribute to national rescue programs. Because that's sexy. I'm not wearing any panties. Come and fuck me into this dirt.
"Hi. I'm Sami. Some people call me Domina. You're a musician, I'm a dominatrix! We both have to know what people want, right? AUGH.
"You're a musician? I'm a musician! Well, not actively, but I play like, everything. My favorite instrument is the flute...which I learned to play from your childhood bully. Also, I may have made out with said bully, but I was really mad because it was New Year's Eve and my date decided he was gay at like eleven-fifty-fucking-nine. Oh my god just STOP TALKING.
"In my defense, who gets bullied by a dude who plays the flute? That's like the US getting beaten up by France. What, did he beat you about the head with his chromed baguette?
"Say something nice. I love...your hair. My favorite lesbian porn star has that hair and I have such a crush...
"Hi. I'm Samantha. I, uh. I really like your music. I came to see you when my husband started filleting his dick and...hiring midget hookers. Escorts? Do they like to be called 'Little Escorts?'
"Oh, yeah. I was married. To a kinky porn star with a 10"+ penis that he could suck himself, but then he doused himself in monkey piss and became a woman and I killed his mom with Facebook. References? Of course I have references.
"I may have spent the last few years tattooing dicks on the chests of suitors who were inferior to the guy I really wanted. Which is you. I promise that is so much less creepy than it sounds.
"Yes, I always wear my clothes this tight. Sexy, right? I used to be into urban exploration and this one time we broke into a bank to set...nevermind.
"Hi. I think you're really beautiful and I'm really hot. I've got like a billion photos and I run this community where people perform sex acts by request. Like this one time, everybody put Shasta bottles in a very uncomfortable place to save me from role-playing Precious from Silence of the Lambs. Precious is the dog. Do you like dogs? I'm not much of a dog person after Linda and the German Shepherd.
"That? That's a picture of me flying through the air on an armchair at a horror convention. It was the VIP after-party and there was a lot of absinthe.
"Hi. I like cats. Do you like cats? Yes, I'm single.
"Hi, I'm Samantha. There's this rumor going around that I'm a size queen, but it's only a rumor that came out of the sexual competitions we used to host.
"HEY. I'm AWESOME. I'm so fucking smart and talented and cultured and financially secure and I can pull the moon down from the fucking sky. LOVE ME."
"You know what, Rock Dude? I'm just going to show up and be so fucking gorgeous that you wouldn't even notice if I sold my voice to Ursula for free rides on your dick! Once you're addicted to this body like fucking cocaine, then I will shower you in a bukkake storm of Awesome Samantha and it will be too late for you to run screaming. You'll be my rock-and-roll slave boy."

At that moment, my friend bolted through my house, literally on fire.
"Stop fucking and stomp him out before he sets the couch on fire!" I yelled to the next room.
I sighed. This was doomed to fail. My world was way too wild for that little bunny of a man.
"I MEAN IT! That's a $12,000 couch!"
But this time, I was going to try.

He is my one enduring obsession and I not-so-quietly live with it by serial-dating fuckboys with similar physical attributes, hobbies, and personality traits.
Cheap knock-offs will never satisfy you, but the consequences make for hilarious stories.
My friends teased me about my infatuations that I burned through like packs of cigarettes.
Each was perfect. Until they weren't. Then, I wanted to carve out their imperfect eyes. Alas, I had to settle for my tattoo artist drawing dicks on their chests. That's still my favorite coffee table book, over "Glamourpuss: The Enchanting World of Kitty Wigs," "Deviant Desires," and "The Guide To Getting It On," which will live on my table as long as I receive buttsex inquiries.

Look. Since you learned to touch yourself, you've known exactly what you want.
I write, so I wrote my male lead...with an elaborate backstory, because mental masturbation is the artist's heroin.
Writers fanfiction the shit out of people for good or evil and no one is the wiser. Because role-playing your obsession always helps you get over it.
Just ask Norman Bates.

I was proud of my masturbatory Frankenstein perfect male lead.
Then, Fate the Sadist decided that it was my turn on the wheel.
I met my storybook lead as a real in-the-flesh person. No, really.
He looked it. He walked it. He talked it. His birthday was one day off my story hero. His home address was within one mile. It was creepy as fuck.

That's the first thing you want to do as a high-school freshman in a new town.
"HEY, HOT UPPERCLASSMAN! I've been writing you for my entire life. Look at this creepy evidence that I am either psychic or have been stalking you since I learned to walk. Do you want to making fuck, now?"

No, I couldn't say anything. But I could make a scene like a nuclear weapon with tits.
I was Holli Would. I cosplayed the cheerleader. I wore the tight red dress. I was Frank N. Furter, dancing in my sexy, lacy, string-underpants in front of the entire school and my gay Spanish teacher.
He thought I was hard to get. Out of his league. A stone fox. Whatever.
If I'd seen more movies, I might have just made him a mix-tape.

I was crushed. So I walked. There was no "not insane" explanation and I couldn't hide it. I'd wallpapered every available surface in my drawings. I was a walking, talking shrine to the god of fuck...who just happened to go to my school. Where is my teen sitcom, NBC?!
That's funny if you know that I bailed on writing a sitcom for NBC.

I moved on with my life, content with the knowledge that wonders existed in the world.
Let's go with that.
Let's pretend I wasn't terribly haunted, drunk on the torment until it turned me into a sadomasochistic juggernaut in the sexual edgeplay community.

I listen to one band almost exclusively. Apparently, "obsession" is my thing.
Their music is the soundtrack to my life. When I fell in love. When my brother died. When I loved my friends. When they died. When I was happy. When I was scared. The music was always with me.

Then, because Fate is a sadistic asshole...
The storybook-hero-made-flesh joined the fucking band.
No connection whatsoever between Where We Grew Up and This Band Over Here, and yet, Love Finds A Way (To Fuck You).
The one man I was desperately pretending did not exist (and failing hilariously) joined the fucking group I was bound to fucking experience every fucking day.
Now His voice was with me, always. Every day on the train. Every sunset. Every night, after the party. Every time I went jogging. Every time I felt something and wanted to resonate with a song.

Thank you, God. Constantly overexposing me to the one temptation I was trying to avoid was very helpful and did not drive me absolutely batshit insane. I started this entry talking to my desktop.

Music is emotional therapy and I developed a Pavlovian response that endures to this day.
His music is my joy bell; I cannot stay sad or angry.
It's like when WHAM! comes on the radio and you find yourself singing and dancing like a giddy idiot before you regain control of yourself and roll up the windows in shame.
You can't fight feel-good music. We are all powerless to this irresistible human impulse.
Mine is just specifically tuned to one person, because he inherited my favorite band.

I had it so bad that it was going to kill me if I did not do something.

Do fuckboys call you intimidating?
Fuckboys always call me intimidating.
I don't even know what the fuck that means.
I'm 5'6" and I can barely move a couch.
Am I funny? Funny like a clown?
Do I have a magic vagina? Is it because I know enough about sex to suggest lubricant?
I know it's not because I'm famous. Warren Ellis has my first fisting experience on his blog and you don't see me pissing all over my fingers.

Let's assume I am intimidating to casual acquaintances because they're crazy.
What happens when I say, "Hi, dude. You've been my definition of perfect since I could comprehend what that meant. My connection to you borders on supernatural. Also, I love your music and have listened to your songs constantly for years. I've experienced them so often and so deeply that hearing your voice or hearing you play instantly brings me to an almost meditative state of peace and happiness.
"Oh, and don't look behind the curtain, because viewing me as a two-dimensional fangirl is sufficiently intimidating without the richness of my identity coming down upon you like an avalanche. I am a woman, a lover, an experience that, for you, will redefine the words."

He'd say, "That's nice, thank you."
I'd lose my hero, my muse, and my shit.
I'd be like Wile E. Coyote if the Roadrunner suddenly dropped dead.

No thanks. I'll be awesome up on this stage and be content to let him admire me from a distance.
Except I wasn't content. It drove me fucking nuts. It was libido cocaine.
I chased anything that helped me quiet the beast caged in my ribs that never stopped trying to claw its way out.

I learned to talk dirty.
It granted me confidence and command in conversation that I hadn't had, before.
It was like learning how to talk to dogs, so that every strange dog suddenly obeyed your command.
If I could bring all the scary people in my life to their knees, surely I could control one man.

I created a Facebook profile as a vanilla front so he wouldn't be eaten alive by my friends.
Talking to him was like dismantling a bomb attached to the holy grail. One wrong move and it's gone forever.
Red wire, blue wire...wait, is that a switch?

He didn't answer my fake vanilla profile.
He pounced on my real social media profiles.
He thought I was awesome and, now that I'd finally opened the door, he wanted to know every last, scandalous detail.

Yeah, sure you do. Everybody wants it all. Bravado is ignorance's bedfellow.
Everybody wants the biggest dick in the house until they discover that it belongs to a donkey and now they're the star of the show.

He'd invoked me and my people in my temple.
The train couldn't be stopped, now. I could only make popcorn and watch the wreck.
I walked him through our world. Waited for him to tremble and bolt like a little baby deer.
He wanted more. Like he was really into it. Like he'd just discovered his fetish.
Nobody's into it, except our tribe, White Man From Town.
It was like he was mocking me.

I narrowed my eyes and set fire to the sky to light the full breadth and scope of my power, wisdom, and experience. If you're going to be burned at the stake, burn the whole city to the ground.
You know I'm serious now, because this part is written in Serious Voice.
In my hubris, I had given more of myself than I had intended, trying to shock him into revealing that he was a coward, because that is what I feared and believed to be true.

I showed him stuff I wouldn't show a priest for fear the winged gestapo would smite me then and there.
He devoured it all and wanted more. He wanted to experience it with me.
He met my eyes with a smile and said, "This is awesome. Why are we still standing here?"

I was pissed. Everyone told me my gut instinct was wrong and he was a vanilla sprite.
Like I was fucking Lilith and I'd devour him in the first five minutes with my magic monster vagina.
It is magical. Not monstrous. Maybe a little fat.
Everybody laughed that I was going to destroy him.
That's how it ended for them, after all.

All those YEARS I had spent in the dark. I was the dark-humored, rule-breaking, eccentric sexual deviant Beast watching the beauty from the shadows. That was enough, even though it never was, because it was all that I had.
Beauty never married. Never had anything serious. Just pranced around my castle indulging his obsessive-compulsive need to clean and organize.
Finally, I got the stones to talk to Beauty and he was all "Nah, sweets. Beasts are my fetish!"

We were married on the stage of the next concert of my favorite band.

That lesson isn't always easy to remember.
It's one of the reasons I started writing again, and one of the reasons I wrote this, first.
Don't let the world scare you into hiding in the darkness.
The people who would love you are waiting for you to shine.
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