Sex, Drugs, Rock 'N Roll, and a Tiara: How I Celebrated Kicking Cancer's Ass

By Beverly Diehl

Nobody wants breast cancer, especially after watching their beloved mother die from it. 

Why would anyone say this journey was the beginning of the happiest years of their life? 

Because it had an awesome playlist, that’s why. Here’s how Beverly’s Kicking Cancer’s Ass soundtrack was built. She started with the classics: the support of sex-positive partners, fabulous family and friends. Mixed in plenty of feel-good music and added some medicinal marijuana. Spiced it up with books, body-positivity, kittens, boudoir photography, and more. Threw on a big, glittery tiara. 

Because sometimes one has to throw on a crown and remind Cancer who it’s dealing with.

***

Sex, Drugs, Rock ‘N Roll, and a Tiara is at times funny, and others, heart-wrenching. Beverly’s experiences with breast cancer give the reader a positive way of approaching disease. She is uncompromisingly determined to live life to the fullest and an inspiration to all of us.

I love how she brings her sexuality into every bit of her life, refusing to be stopped by her disease. She gives meaning to the term sex-positive.
~ Walker J. Thornton, author of Inviting Desire

***

Feeling sexy when your body isn’t a size six, let alone when that bountiful, beautiful body is experiencing health problems, can challenge anyone. This memoir shares an intimate journey of body-positivity, love, friendship, vulnerability, setbacks, and triumphs. In the end, sex-positivity for the win! 
~ Elle Chase, author of Curvy Girl Sex: 101 Body-Positive Positions to Empower Your Sex Life

***

Beverly Diehl has beautifully written a brave, funny, fascinating memoir, opening her heart to the reader in a way that is honest, raw, insightful and loving. From themes as diverse as cancer to polyamory, Beverly is a trusted guide and confidant. She shines her light on the dark times with a wit that simply sparkles, and best of all, reading this book is just like talking to a best friend. 
~Andra Jenkin, co-author of Double-edged Sword: The Simonne Butler Story

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beverly Diehl
• Release date: Oct 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780997938708

Book preview

Sex, Drugs, Rock 'n Roll,

and a Tiara

––––––––

How I Celebrated Kicking Cancer’s Ass

––––––––

by

Beverly Diehl

All rights reserved

Copyright © September 2017 Beverly Diehl

Edited and formatted by The Novel Fixer

Cover photographs by Nick Holmes

Cover design by Christine Leo

Photographs by Nick Holmes (used with permission), Beverly Diehl and Kirk McKenzie.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or photographer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 0-9979387-0-6

ISBN: 978-0-9979387-0-8

Read at Your Own Risk

Should you risk it? Well, wouldn’t you like to find out how and why someone would brag that her breast cancer journey was the beginning of the best year of her life? Except I can’t truly say that, because going on three years out from diagnosis, the best phenomena and sense of delight continues. It hasn’t merely been one year.

This memoir includes fabulous friendships, capital L Love, gratitude, medical excellence, body-positivity, sex-positivity, threesomes, marijuana, feminism, music, books, joy, family solidarity, kittens, sexy boob pictures... and a tiara.

However, CW (Content Warning): it also contains mention or description of the  following subjects that upset or trigger many people: sexual assault, rape, slut-shaming, death, disease, heartbreak, BDSM, religious abuse, fat-shaming, toxic relationships, herpes, sex parties, polyamory, liberal politics, scary boob pictures, and many swears. Because: fucking cancer.

If any of those things are rough on you, you might want to skip those sections. Or sneak up on them sideways.

Pretty sure there are stories here that will surprise you, intrigue you, or sometimes, piss you off. My goal is to hit everyone in the feels, one way or another. But I hope there are helpful tips and tricks you can use during whatever life odyssey you are taking.

My voyage – through life, love, and cancer – has been so much better, because of these amazing people and communities who inspire and stimulate me every day:

Justin Aldridge

Daveed Alvarado

Kady Ambrose

Grace Ancheta

Dr. Bill Ashby & staff

Christine Ashworth

Bruce & Erin Bartels

Dr. Laurie Bennett-Cook

Orpheus & Indigo Black

Jerilyn Blair

Michael Bolger

Tara Brach

Cassie Brighter

Chris Brooks

Grace Burrowes

Haley Carver

Elle Chase

Mari Christie

Hillary Clinton

Jae Nam Coe

Lydia Coffman

Cac Cook

Gabriella Cordova

Barbara Crossley

Dawn Cushman

Druanne Cushman

Marc Cushman

Dixie de la Tour

Mary & Pablo DiSanti

Dr. Catherine Dang

Karin & Sherwin Davis

Claire Davon

Greg Dean

Danielle Donaldson

Pamela DuMond

Joyce & Wes Dunbar

Dr. Julie Dunhill

Patricia Eddy

Hope Edelman

Ana Edwards

Bobbie Edwards

Jim Edwards

Kevin Edwards

Korey Edwards

Clarissa Pinkola Estés

Tony Faggioli

Augusta Fleming

Jean Franzblau

Ana Paola Galvis

JJ Gertler

Nat Gertler

Karen Girard

Vance Gloster

Kathy Gottberg

Barbara Hammond

Mina Harker

Ericka Hart

Kim Herman

Nick Holmes

Mia Hopkins

Lynda Holt

Terri Hudson

Chloe Jeffreys

Andra Jenkin

Paula L. Johnson

Lindsey Karagoz

Mercedes Lackey

Dr. Jennifer Lang

Jenny Lawson

Ursula K. LeGuin

Christine Leo

Hercules Liotard

Felecia Miller Lundgren

Dr. Malcolm Margolin

Maggie Marr

Anne McCaffrey

Loreena McKennitt

Kirk McKenzie

Reid Mihalko

Barry Norton

Karen Norton

Sidney Patrick

Antoinette Patterson

Kevin A. Patterson

James Pekkarinen

Dr. Terry Podell (& Allison!)

Jennifer Pratt

Anna Quindlen

Beth Ragsdale

Heather Ragsdale

Jim Ragsdale

Dr. Victoria Reuveni

Hilaree Robinson

Kim Sisto Robinson

Tami Robinson

Rosalia, Dr. Marc, Dr. Tina, Pete, & the crew

Steve Saunders

Maria Seager

Abby Sherman

David Smith

Becky Ragsdale Stack

Savannah Stack

Cheryl Strayed

Dr. Stacey Sumner

Walker J. Thornton

Kim Townsel

Dr. Rick Tucker

Pastor Mary Ubuntu

Dr. Carolyn Williams

Ann & Nancy Wilson

Ché Zuro

My BNG work family

My Adventuristas

The AWG Fiction SIG

Brazen Women

Cedars-Sinai Nurses, Techs, & Admin staff

The Fempire

The HAES® community

The HSV+ communities

my LARA tribe

Motherless Daughters support groups

Polyamory Discussions

The Ripped Bodice

Sex Positive World

Sex Positive Los Angeles

SoCal Lady Bloggers

Speakeasy Scribes

Trustable Sluts

What’s Next? Cancer community

Women of Midlife

Words on Wheels Board of Directors

The Writer Unboxed community

Writing Wenches

My Alphabet Guys

Mojo & Tivvy

Every librarian and teacher I’ve ever known,

All the women and men who did not survive their breast cancer...

and always, Momma, Betty Jane Koschin Diehl.

Plus a whole lot of other people who should be listed here, but because [plays Get-Out-Of-Shit-Because-Of-Cancer card] my stupid cancer-brain forgot, they’re not. I value you, I appreciate and treasure all of you. I am so blessed in the web of wonderful people who have helped and continue to support me in my journey. Thank you!!

Part One: The Journey Begins

Prologue: Once Upon a Time

Spotify Playlist:

This Used To Be My Playground — Madonna

Martian Sunrise — Gekko Projekt

Gaelic Melody — Fraser & Machlis

Once upon a time, there was a happy little girl...

But then things were awful and scary. For a long time.

It started when Momma went to the hospital and came home all wobbly and not strong anymore. The little girl couldn’t even hug her, but Momma found a way, she let the little girl hug her big, soft, pillowy arm. It felt safe, it smelled safe. The little girl hoped, when she grew up, to have big soft, comforting arms like Momma.

There were hushed conversations with the words Big C, and, whispered, cancer.

Cancer was a bad thing, but Momma had gone to the hospital, and the doctors had cut it out. That’s what doctors did, they made people better. Even when people had cancer. Momma had to go to the doctor a lot, but the little girl heard words like remission and survival. Momma got pewmonia and had to go to the hospital again. But she got better and came home.

One time, the little girl went into Momma and Daddy’s room, and Momma was naked, looking at her body in the mirror. When she had her clothes on, nobody could tell, but without her clothes, her body was lopsided, all sunken and scarred on one side.

Oh, her face! Momma looked so sad and ashamed.

Then there was the time Momma couldn’t breathe, and the little girl asked if she should call the operator, but Momma shook her head no. She got better. Momma always got better.

Sometimes Momma was happy, would go around the house humming and singing. Even after Daddy got a new job and they moved, and Momma missed all her family and friends.

But then in the new town, she had to go back in the hospital again, for another operation. Grandma came to stay. She helped the little girl get dressed in pantyhose and lipstick, like her big sisters.

If anybody asks, tell them you’re twelve, she told the little girl as they got out of the car to go see Momma in the hospital. It was scary to see her like that, all bandages and tubes and looking so tired, but Momma smiled at the little girl like she always did.

Grandma did all the cooking and cleaning, and the little girl went to school every day. They got a big hospital bed that they put in the living room, and when Momma came home from the hospital, she went there instead of her own room with Daddy.

Sometimes Momma seemed fine. The little girl could tell her about her teacher, so nice, and her friends, and what she learned in school. Other times, Momma’s eyes looked kind of wild. One time, the little girl was playing with a yo-yo, and Momma scolded her, kept telling her to put the soap back in the bathroom.

One of her big sisters moved into the apartment, with her new baby. The baby was so sweet, the little girl loved to play with her.

Then it was going to be the little girl’s birthday. Grandma promised she would make cupcakes for the little girl to take to school, just like Momma did. She even promised that the little girl could lick the beaters. But she wasn’t making the cupcakes, even though tomorrow was the birthday. When the little girl asked about them, Grandma told her to never mind in that voice, and the little girl knew not to talk back.

The little girl put on her pajamas and kissed Momma and everybody good night, but they put her to sleep in Momma’s real bed, in Momma and Daddy’s room, instead of in her own room next to the living room. The little girl read her book and fell asleep, then she woke up.

She could hear Momma, from all the way in the living room. Crying out, I’m dying, oh God, I’m dying!

The little girl had never heard Momma scream like that. Momma sounded so hurt, so scared.

The little girl lay on the bed and sobbed. She wanted to run into the living room, but she felt too afraid. Momma cried and moaned for a very long time, while the little girl listened, and shivered, and wept, alone in the bed.

And then, it was quiet. Very, very quiet.

When the girl woke up in the morning, she knew right away she was late for school. And... she had wet the bed. The girl felt so ashamed. She hadn’t wet the bed since she was a very little girl. Today, she was ten. Much too old for wetting the bed.

The girl got up and walked slowly down the long, long hallway to the living room. It was so quiet. She couldn’t hear Grandma working in the kitchen, or her sister, or her sister’s baby. Or Momma. Not even the TV was on. She could see Daddy there, in the living room. He had been working so much since Momma got sick, but he didn’t go to work today.

Daddy, I think I’m late for school, the girl said. And... I wet the bed.

Honey, it doesn’t matter. He drew her into his arms and sat down, putting her on his lap on the couch, wet pajamas and all. Your mother died last night.

The girl turned her head, and Momma’s hospital bed was empty. So empty.

There weren’t even sheets on it anymore. The girl cried and cried.

And she grew up. And she never liked wearing lipstick, or pantyhose, very much.

She didn’t like her birthday anymore, either.

But after a while, there were days, weeks even, when she didn’t hear the echoes in her head, of Momma screaming out in pain and terror in her last hours. When the girl remembered the good times, mostly, and hardly ever, the nightmares.

The woman learned to be happy, and everyone loved her smile. Momma’s smile.

But she always knew that someday, she would get breast cancer.

Just like Momma.

The Mammo That Changed Everything

Spotify Playlist

Dreamer — Supertramp

Your Wildest Dreams — Moody Blues

Superstition — Stevie Wonder

I never had enough ESP to be worth bragging about. I could find a good parking spot when I needed one. I rolled double sixes in backgammon more than was statistically likely.

But something really useful, like picking winning lottery numbers? Not so much.

I learned to pay attention to my dreams, though. Once I had a nightmare, woke and removed my then-child from his bed and placed him in my own, and ten minutes later, a neighboring house began losing its roof in a high wind. A shingle shattered my son’s bedroom window, and his just-vacated bed was covered in shards of glass. Yeah, that was useful. Three times in one week I dreamed about seeing my childhood sweetheart in a coffin, and as it turned out, that was the week his mother passed.

So when a few days before my mammogram, I had a very vivid dream about my breasts, it gave me pause. In my dream, I felt very frustrated because I wanted to help nurse a boyfriend’s baby boy (not a real life ambition, trust me!), and we were having trouble coordinating our schedules. And while looking at the dream baby... I felt a pop in both breasts, but especially the right. Similar to, but not exactly like the let-down reflex all moms who nursed will recognize.

It woke me up, and Laverne (my right breast) was throbbing.

My breast was being an asshole.

Isn’t this interesting? I took an Advil and went back to sleep.

My annual mammogram was scheduled in two days. By this point, I was a veteran at the ol’ boob pancake game. Yes, they always hurt, sometimes worse than other times. For my pre-menopausal sisters, I advise you to always check your menstrual cycles and do not schedule yours during ovulation or just before your period. You’re welcome.

Because my mother’s cancer was pre-menopausal and occurred in the years before genetic testing, I’d gotten a baseline mammogram when I was twenty-eight. In the years between that one and the latest, I’d had a few exciting experiences. And by exciting, I mean shitty.

At thirty, I found a lump at the edge of my right breast. And had my second mammo.

Probably nothing to worry about, given your age, they said. Just monitor it. If it changes in size or shape, let us know. We’ll check it again in six months.

Well. If feeling yourself up had been an Olympic event, I’d have taken home the gold medal. The lump was exactly the same. No, it was getting bigger. No, smaller.

I spent those six months going out of my ever-fondling mind.

When I went back for the recheck, they suggested, Let’s be conservative, give it another six months, and take another look.

I was like, "Oh, hell no. Whatever this is, I want it out, and I want it out now." I would have carved that sucker out of my boob with a dull steak knife if I’d had to.

So I had surgery. The worst part was before the surgery when somebody stuck a big-ass needle in my boob and left it sticking out about four inches or so with a Styrofoam cup taped over it, so I wouldn’t accidentally impale myself. For hours.

The surgery itself wasn’t horrible. I was knocked out, general anesthesia. I felt a little dazed and confused for the next couple of weeks because, drugs. A little tender, but also hugely relieved, because my Olympic lump turned out to be a fibroadenoma, which is a fancy name for benign spongy-fatty tissue.

A few more years of uneventful mammograms, then... something.

They took me into another room and looked at the thing with ultrasound. The doctor came in with another big-ass needle (I want to know why they don’t make nice, polite little medical needles) and said, I think it’s just a cyst. I’d like to aspirate it.

What does that mean?

Take the fluid out, so it goes away.

Fuck yes, whatever the hell this thing is, take it out, make it go away. All right.

You might have deduced, I hate needles. So I looked away when he stuck the needle in. And I was fighting something of a panic attack as this was all going down.

Did I mention my son was nine years old at the time, the same age I was when my mother’s breast cancer was discovered to have metastasized? I was really, really scared.

Hmmmph, the doctor grunted. "It’s filling up with blood. I’ve never seen it do that before."

Not what I needed to hear. I. Was. Losing. My. Shit. Tears began sliding down my face, and I fought not to sob out loud.

The Marquis de Bloody Needle noticed. You’re crying. Why are you crying? There’s nothing to cry about.

I would like to go on record now and say, You, sir, were an insensitive fuckwad.

But at the time, I felt I had to apologize for upsetting the doctor with my tears.

Since the whatever-it-was couldn’t be aspirated, we scheduled a stereotactic (aka, needle) biopsy. Yay, more needles!

Unfortunately, it was the middle of winter, and when my appointment day finally arrived, a few centuries later, I’d been sick and still had a lingering cough. So they wanted to postpone my biopsy for another month or so. See: Losing Shit, above.

But this doctor, not being a fuckwad, decided to see what a dose of prescription Benadryl would do re: quieting my cough.

It worked. I got to lie on the special elevated table with Laverne and Shirley hanging down through a cut-out, while more needles numbed the area and then dove in for the sample. But at least I didn’t have to watch, and if there was unexpected blood or other surprises, this time I didn’t hear about it.

I can’t fully express how terrified I was that I was poised to follow in my mother’s footsteps, that I too would die when my son was still growing up.

Victory! Another fibroadenoma.

I’ve since learned that when you lose your same sex parent as a child, it’s very common to believe that you, too, will die at the same age as your parent, or when your child is the age you were when they died. It’s a kind of instinctive knowledge, like knowing if you jump into your bed from far enough away, the monsters aren’t allowed to grab your ankles.

Once my son turned eleven, I felt like I was home free. I was not going to repeat the pattern of leaving an orphaned child. And my mammograms were uneventful.

Until... I was in a high stress, toxic relationship. I developed a whole posse of lumps, bumps, cysts, and other mysterious shit. Seven to nine inside Shirley, and a good thirteen or fifteen in Laverne. To accessorize with her biopsy scars.

I accepted the news fairly calmly (lie, I cried and freaked out) and managed to bang my shiny new car into the parking lot pole while backing out after my appointment. More tears.

My toxic then-boyfriend ridiculed me for denting up my car and refused to accompany me to any of my appointments for moral support because he hated hospitals and doctors.

I even went through a breast MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging), a real boob tube, but the result was just a bunch more cysts and fibroadenomas. For the next several years, I got digital mammograms followed by ultrasounds, and it seemed the answer was, cysts happen, and girlfriend, you got dense, lumpy breasts.

I ditched the toxic boyfriend (though his voice still echoes in my head way too often!), and although the last few years leading up to The Mammogram That Changed Everything included many stressful and tragic family events, I felt upbeat heading in for it. Just routine.

Although, that dream. Part of me was holding my breath, poised to get bad news or to be sent in for an ultrasound. But I wasn’t.

I waited, in that fashionable, open-in-the-front gown, while the radiologist reviewed my charts and scans. Then the technician came out and said, Looks good. Call the office for your next appointment, and we’ll see you next year.

I was in the massive parking structure next door, fishing my debit card out of my wallet and preparing to pay at the parking kiosk, thinking about a victory watermelontini when my phone rang.

This is so-and-so at Cedars. Are you still in the area?

I felt annoyed. Couldn’t they have taken care of whatever it was while I was still there? They probably needed to Xerox my insurance card for the billionth time. Just barely, yes.

The radiologist would like you to come back for more views.

"Now?"

Would you rather reschedule for another day?

As if that would be any more convenient? No. I’ll be right back.

I still wasn’t freaking out. I thought, Great, now I have some newbie and overcautious radiologist who isn’t familiar with all my lumps and bumps and scars.

So I went back, undressed and gowned up again. What a nuisance! Got another set of views of Laverne (always the noisy one) with the mammography equipment, then they performed an ultrasound after all.

After a wait that was probably fifteen minutes but felt like ten times that, especially with the reality TV blaring in the waiting area, I was shown into the radiologist’s office. She pointed at the screen toward what she was concerned about. Even with my breast blown up to the size of a microwave oven (it’s big, but not that big), the spot was minuscule. Barely a tiny shadow on the mammograms, and she said it didn’t appear on the ultrasound at all.

That’s a good thing, right?

She didn’t answer my question. Instead, she said, I think it would be a really good idea to have a biopsy.

I tried not to roll my eyes right in her face. H’okay, fine, I knew the drill, I’d already had two biopsies, it would probably turn out to be nothing. Again.

Still, I remembered that weird popping sensation I’d felt in my breast just a few nights ago. And my ESP stirred around a little, telling me it could all mean... something.

I’d probably have another long, frustrating wait for the biopsy to go down because they never rush them when it’s merely a routine precaution.

They scheduled the biopsy to happen in two days.

Shit just got real.

Tiaras Make Everything Better

Spotify Playlist

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun — Cyndi Lauper

Golden Years — David Bowie

Shine On You Crazy Diamond — Pink Floyd

I never considered myself a prima donna or beauty queen type, but several months before The Mammo That Changed Everything, I was cruising one of my favorite stores for cheap bling affordable accessories and saw a case of tiaras. Half off!

I’d never owned one, and suddenly, I needed one. I picked the biggest, glitteriest tiara in the case. Because: bargain!

And then, because I’m such an excellent housekeeper, I put it on top of my refrigerator. It sparkled down at me for the next several months while I wondered what I’d been smoking (sadly, nothing, yet) to waste money on such a frivolous thing and when on earth was I ever going to find an occasion to wear a tiara?

In the fall and winter before the mammo, I was chatting with some girlfriends about the dating game. These days, we mostly found our potential partners online, and we shared stories about how frustrating it was to go on a first-meet date when we felt kinda meh about the other person. We mostly went anyway, hoping for the best, because occasionally somebody who wasn’t brilliant online could be awesome in person. Other times, they were awful, but usually, they were just okay, and that was disappointing.

Nobody wants dates to be... just okay. We want them to be exciting, electric. Filled with tingling possibilities.

We want them to sparkle.

My girlfriends and I even floated the idea of glitter-bombing our dates so that, worst case scenario, at least they’d sparkle that way.

Reluctantly, we decided, probably not a bright idea. Contact lenses, dry cleaning bills, assault charges...

It wasn’t long after this discussion that I scheduled one of those first-meet dates, and while we seemed like a good enough match on screen, I wasn’t feeling very excited vibes about the guy. I decided to meet him anyway. And then, from the top of the refrigerator, it winked at me. Take me, take me!

I decided to wear my tiara to the date, because why not? It would bring the sparkle, be less intrusive than a glitter bomb, and would be a good test to see if my date had a playful sense of humor.

He did not.

I wish I had a picture of the horrified look on his face, though he politely tried to hide it.

Because I’d decided in advance I would either have a good time or a good story, I ended up having both. My tiara enchanted our server and several other people who stopped by our table to chat.

My tiara sparkled. I sparkled. My date barely cracked a smile... clearly, not a good match for me, whatever the algorithm had said. I imagined listening in later when he unloaded to his guy friends, "My date walked up to me wearing a tiara, can you believe it?"

My imaginary retort, "Well, my date walked up to me three inches shorter than his profile claimed he was."

Anyway, the dates I had following that one had brought their own sparkle, in terms of personality. Yay for good dates! I hadn’t needed to call on The Power of Glitter or other twinkling objects. So back to the top of the fridge the tiara went.

However, as I worked to keep calm and mindful, rather than in holy fuck freakout mode, it seemed to me that my biopsy could use all the bling and humor and magic I could conjure. I’d seen a meme going around, a stylized image of Marilyn Monroe putting a tiara on her own head: Sometimes you just have to throw on a crown and remind them who they’re dealing with.

No, Cancer, you do not know who you’re messing with. I shared the meme on my Facebook page without revealing the behind-the-scenes of what inspired it.

I decided to wear my tiara to work on the day of my biopsy and keep it on till I was past the procedure itself. Because, why not?

My coworkers, for the most part, merely looked at me and smiled (they know I’m strange quirky), except the one I confided in, Lynda, a breast and other cancers sur-thriver herself. And when I told her of my plan to rock my tiara through the biopsy, she laughed and said, Absolutely. I bet the medical staff will love it.

So I went in with a tiara on my head. And unlike my date, the No Humor Man, the entire medical staff, from parking attendants to check-in to nurses to techs got a big giggle out of it. I wore it with a smile, which made them smile, which made me smile even more.

Because even when you’re doing something really sucky like having big-ass needles poked into your boob to find out if you have cancer, smiling and being surrounded by friendly smiling people makes everything less stressful.

This proves that tiaras do make everything better.

Poly Want A Partner

Spotify Playlist

No One Like You — Scorpions

Are You Experienced — Jimi Hendrix

One in a Million — Romantics

Growing up, I learned that the default relationship style was Married With Children. Even in the animal kingdom, monogamy was sold as the norm.

I was also led to believe that the lions were playing tag with the zebras, but that’s another issue.

I knew couples who had no children, of course. People who never married. Those who lived with a same sex roommate, of whom they seemed to be extremely fond.

But as an adult, I’d never known anyone who was openly polyamorous or had even heard of the term till a few years ago. I knew people who dated around, people who practiced monogamy, people who were theoretically monogamous but cheated.  People who went from one monogamous relationship to another, often with overlap. And of course, people who were celibate, by choice or by chance. I’d been celibate myself during different years-long stretches of my life.

Still, monogamy — one life partner — till death do us part was the assumed default. So when I returned to Datingland a couple of years ago, my original thought was that I was looking for, and would find, The One.

Amy Gahran recently released the excellent book Stepping Off the Relationship Escalator. It’s about the societal presumption and default thinking that romantic relationships have to go somewhere, beginning with flirting and getting acquainted. With certain societally recognized stages to becoming serious and committed, sharing a home, possibly bringing children into the world, sharing finances and real estate.

But what if you want to get off the escalator? What if the goals and steps for a standard relationship aren’t what you want?

I examined not what I was told I should want, but what I actually did want.

I knew I didn’t want to share a home or finances. As far as procreation, been there, done