Monday, March 16, 2009

Ah, weekends. I don't know how I cram so much stuff into you, but I do.

Once again, life proved to be interesting.

Friday night, I had a coffee date with some entertainment guy. Note my interest in occupation. Moving along. On the topic of sex, he tells me he likes puzzles, he likes figuring out a person's sexuality. With me, he says, there's absolutely no point (other than physical gratification) because I know myself too well. There's no mystery, no seeking, no untangling of repressed desires. I find this amusing and complimentary, even though he does not mean it as such. It was not meant to be an insult, either.

Makes me wonder if he just likes puzzles, or if he has a need to feel superior to his partners. I do know it is not an altruistic act for him.

I also had a sort of milestone on Friday.

I did not have a book on me when I ate dinner. I actually sat in a restaurant, by myself, and ate dinner while not reading.

It was very disorienting. I found that I did not know what to do. I know a lot of solo-diners either stare into the space in front of them, or down at their plate. And then they just sit and eat. Really? Well, I tried it. It was highly uncomfortable, though it did give me time to run through the years of my life, trying to remember the last time I ate a solitary meal without a book.

I could not remember one.

Hell, my parents had to break me of the habit of bringing books to the dinner table. Took them years. I still bring a few with me to family functions. There's a comfortable armchair by the one of the fireplaces at my cousins' house that I do take advantage of after the family chitter has been accomplished.

It's funny, though. I spend so much time by myself, I'm so comfortable in being alone with my thoughts for hours, yet I don't know how to eat a solitary meal in public while not reading.

I went to a club after dinner. It was a good night for dancing. I was unable to keep to myself as much as I would normally, as a friend was feeling down about her guy troubles and I felt the need to be supportive and a good listener, since I know the guys involved.

She's very open. She's very emotional. She loves easily. The last man she was with did not want to get into a committed relationship with her because he was jonesing after one of his female friends, some model, and did not want to be locked into a relationship if that girl happened to possibly glance his way.

Unfortunately, he was unable or unwilling to express this to my friend. Fortunately, I speak horny male. I speak it fluently.

So we talked. Guys would come over, flirt, I'd hear a good song and saunter over to the dancefloor, leaving her to be desired on her own. It's good for you, once you've been rejected, to feel wanted. A few subtle tweaks, some quiet observations, and I was prodding her towards an interested male, one that I ended up having to scrape off me a little.

Sorry, boys, I've got a specific type. Prancing club-goer is not it.

It was a good night, though. Finally was able to entirely let go on the dancefloor. I've been trying for that for years now. Really, years of attempting to hit that plateau where it is all dance and no thought. Sans alcohol, of course. I think it is a good sign for me. Maybe I'll finally be able to let go in bed some day. Good golly.

Saturday, I drove down to San Diego to visit an ex-lover and go out dancing again.

Last time I visited him, I thought we had established that I was no longer interested in a sexual relationship with him. I thought I had been very clear on my position of not wanting to backtrack, and while he had been an excellent lover, he's no longer my type. Yes, I slept with him whenever I was single for over three years. But that ended four years ago and I've changed enough so he's no longer desirable.

He tried again, anyhow. Even though I found him a new lover, he still tried again.

I suppose if I was younger, I would not have noticed his hints and "tricks". I suppose I would've fallen for them.

It's funny, what the years bring.

Lying in his bed, face-up, getting some bodywork done (he's an amazing masseuse), feeling the weight shift as he leans forward, feeling his breath on my lips. And I know, the instant I feel that, that he wants to kiss me. And I know if I open my eyes and not move, he'll take that as an okay, even though I've told him no. I don't want the massage to end yet- I slept at an awkward angle on Thursday night (another black leather couch) and my neck is incredibly sore. So I lie there, still, eyes closed. I know he won't take advantage of his dominant position if I have faith in him, if I trust him not to kiss me.

We're in a room only illuminated by the fading light of the sun, his only window facing east, so it's quite dark. His hands roam from my neck, to my shoulders, to my chest, to my breasts. It's a slow transition, extending over an hour. I let him play. When he makes a suggestive comment about what he's doing, I act languid and tell him it feels so relaxing, I'm falling asleep. It's like he's trying to drive a VW Bug into a thick steel wall. Everything he tries, every quiet hint he makes, when his nose bumps mine, it's all deflected. I make a point to open my eyes and stare him down when he gets a little too close with his lips. He's much larger than me, he's much stronger than me, and he's in a position to physically control me, but I am the dominant one in this situation.

Kissing means nothing to me, but to him it would be a signal of willingness. That's annoying.

Eventually we have to leave. The damage I've done to my muscles in my neck, shoulder, and right arm in the last few months has been, at least temporarily, taken care of. I can type without pain again.

We get dinner, get coffee, get ready to go.

His sister, back in town from her most recent job assignment, has decided to come with us to the club. I do her make-up. She's gorgeous, the shape of her eyes is fantastic, but she doesn't know how to do the style required for the evening. I okay her outfit... she was relieved. I did not realize she would put so much stock in my opinion, but I have been doing this club circuit for seven years now, have been touted as the source of all needed information for newcomers amongst my friends.

We go to the club. I'm flying on adrenaline. I've only been here once before. Small venue, but nice. Flat panel monitors line the walls, the dancefloors have lit stairs and stripper poles. It's cute. My favorite part of the entire club is the A/C vents, which blast you like a cold shower. You just have to follow the air currents to find them.

I dance.

People love it, love the style. In Los Angeles, everyone is much more reserved with their compliments. In San Diego, women and men were approaching me. I worry a little, each time I go down there, that I'll stand out in a horrible way. They have their own dance style, just as San Francisco, Boston, Germany, Atlanta, and Los Angeles does. Yes, there are other cities with other styles, but those are the main ones, origin points.

I sit down. A boy comes up to me, tells me he was watching me dance, asks me what my name is. We get about two sentences in when one of his friends come over. They're going to go smoke some pot outside, want to know if I'll join them. I turn them down, tell them I don't smoke. The surprise people always have when I tell them that amuses me. They wander off.

A few songs later, another man approaches. I was talking with some friends at one of the bars, but that did not seem to faze him. He tells me he likes my look. Conservative, he says. I'm dark and elegant, I'm not "flashing my goods" around. He tells me I really pull it off. I thank him. He tries to continue, I beg off, saying there's a song playing I wish to dance to, and escape.

While the A/C is powerful, the venue is completely lacking in ventilation. After a few songs, my clothes are plastered to my body. I haven't sweated this much dancing in years. It's wonderful, but the floor is overcrowded and I don't like the song.

I step outside. See another friend, talking to a tall blond man.

The blond is cocky. I listen to him talk and grin because he's so very full of himself. I don't bother getting an introduction because I'm just fascinated with his arrogance.

Eventually another girl sails in, interrupts their conversation. In this, I slide in.

Cocky men like him are great, easy to handle. They're loud, they're fast talkers. They have a few friends that will rib them, and those few friends will have girlfriends that have the same priviledge, but they never expect to get handed shit from a perfect stranger, especially when that stranger is female.

So I play the game. Teasing, talking, mildly insulting, dry humor, punctuated with a bit of sexuality that isn't directed at any one person. You can't have him feeling special, like he could be the focus of your attention. He expects that. If you want to get the most out of your cocky bastard, he has to know you don't really want him, but if you're in the mood you just might take him anyhow.

And then... he's hooked.

So I excuse myself and go back inside to dance.

Between songs, I get water at the bar. I glance over and see a familiar face. No one I know, just a common expression/outfit/facial structure combo. We hold eye contact for a few seconds, then he looks away. I consider going and talking to him, but decide against it. I'll check him out later, see what he's doing and who he's with.

More dancing, another outside break, cooling off under the night sky, and then back in. Neither room is playing anything remotely interesting, so I meander over to the bar.

Oh, look, there's blondie again. Wonderful.

He's standing, half bent over a table, talking to someone. I run my hand from the base of his spine up to his shoulders, slow, letting my fingers lead a slightly wavy pattern.

He stands immediately with a pleasantly shocked movement, turns and smiles when he sees me. Tells me that he likes the way I touch.

"Of course you do."

He offers to buy me a drink. I tell him I don't drink and, again, the shock I receive amuses me. I do tell him he can get me water, if he wishes.

He does.

While he's at the bar, I take advantage of the limited space and slide in next to him, my torso pressed against his side. We continue to talk and I get my water. Another girl comes up, whippet thin and beautiful. She starts to dominate the conversation and realizes I'm having none of it. I'm controlling my own corner and I'm not catching flak from the blond even though I'm keeping him on his toes. She decides to steal me away, she wants to dance with me, wants to hear about the Los Angeles club scene. She drops pieces of her life to me, her distress and dissatisfaction. I amuse her with stories about the clubs in LA, we poke fun at a few people. I try to keep it light, but she has this burning need to feel like she's more. I fill that need by being the dancing girl down from the bright and sparkly city of Los Angeles. She's like a piranha, I know she'd shine in LA. Unfortunately, it's not a shine I would ever take to. But I invite her up with me next time I go out anyhow.

The club starts winding down, and I find myself back by the bar, summoned by different sources. The blond guy is still there, talking. He lifts his arm for me to slide under, my hand goes to his back, fingers trailing and exploring.

My ex-lover comes by. He's having a hard time with his new lover. She's a damaged girl, quite confused. But he likes her, he likes her a lot. Enough to put up with her indecision between chosing him or chosing the other man she's sleeping with. She's his dirty little secret, she loves being used.


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